


I don't want to lose you again

by noahlikeswaffles



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Greg Lestrade is a Good Friend, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Parental Greg Lestrade, Pining Sherlock Holmes, Punishment, Self-Flagellation, Self-Hatred, Sherlock is a Mess, papa lestrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:09:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27044782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noahlikeswaffles/pseuds/noahlikeswaffles
Summary: the night after the wedding, Greg goes to 221b to check on Sherlock. Sherlock isn't doing to well to say the least.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 89





	I don't want to lose you again

The air was chilly and damp as they watched the car off- bride and groom. Happily ever after. Lestrade grinned and gave them a wave amongst the cheering and laughing, his other arm wrapped around a rather frail looking Mrs. Hudson. Together they held their breath. They'd held their breath the whole ruddy affair- through the ceremony, that horrible speech god bless him, and that violin solo. The whispers of the melody still filtered through the silence in Lestrade's ears. Funny how silent it could get, even when there was noise. Martha only huddled closer as the car drove away, and all Greg could think was that this was the wrong wedding. He imaged Mrs. H knew it too.

There was silence between them as the other guests migrated inside. But Martha Hudson held her ground, so Greg stood with her. 

"Would y'like a ride home, Mrs. Hudson?" Greg said fondly as she rubbed her hands together, still watching across the dark mossy grass the twin pair of tail-lights that faded into the night, the essence of a stiff upper lip. 

"Oh, would you, dear?" She seemed to break from a trance and Greg smiled, squeezing her shoulders. 

"Course, yeah, let me get my keys," Martha nodded and wrapped arms around herself once more, her adorable hat a bit haphazard on her head, coat sleeves just a touch too long. Greg only nodded, stepping calmly with his hands tucked in his pockets. Getting his keys from the valet stand was a blur, and soon he tossed them around the ring in his hand out of habit.

"I rather like this venue," Mrs. Hudson said plainly, without much meaning "that garden is so lovely,"

"Definitely," Greg agreed, holding open her door for her and holding her hand as she got into the passenger side. They didn't say much when he started the car, or when he pulled out of the gravel parking lot and onto the main road back into town. 

"Mary's dress was so pretty too, I imagine it cost a pretty penny. The minute those shopkeepers hear wedding, they raise the price double, that's what I hear," Greg smiled and nodded, the awkward unspeakable pressing on him. Sherlock was long gone. God, he should have followed after him. What if he was someone dangerous, what if he wasn't alright? Greg should have noticed the second he'd left.

"He's probably home, dear," Martha placed a delicate hand on greg's arm, eyes soft and gentle, "I'll see he gets a warm cuppa and a good rest, alright?"

Greg nodded mutely. Sure, right, of course Sherlock would be at Baker Street. 

Dear God, he hoped so. 

* * *

The windows of 221b were dark when Greg pulled up to the kerb. He scrubbed at his hair before pulling out the keys and getting out, before circling to open Mrs. H's door. 

She didn't say anything as he followed her up the steps, finding the door unlocked, they didn't say anything when they parted ways at the foot of the staircase- their eyes meeting in a silent moment before looking upstairs. Greg sucked in a breath and took the stairs by twos, reaching the door to Sherlock's flat that was slightly ajar. 

"Sherlock?" Greg said casually, stepping into the flat before his heart sunk. Napkins folded everywhere, fabric swatches, practice bouquets that had wilted to brown petals and the case wall tacked instead with all sorts of seating charts and time tables. _Jesus. He's planned the whole thing._ "Sherlock, are you in here?"

There was a muffled thud upstairs and Greg turned, eyes full of concern. He took the second flight of stairs, seeing each piece of Sherlock's best man's outfit, his armor, strewn in pieces up the stairs. He gathered it all up into a ball in his arms and paused at the door to John's old room. 

"You in there, sunshine?" Greg didn't wait for the reply, pushing open the knob and gasping, taking a step back. His widened brown eyes were frantic as he took in the scene before him. Sherlock was naked, his back to Greg, scars old and new, bleeding, pussing, some mangled white like thick ropes down his back, bruises of all colour and size acorss his limbs, his head hung low between his sharp (far too sharp) shoulder blades, "Christ, Sherlock, what are you-"

Greg could barely contain himself when he saw what was in Sherlock's hand. Some sort of nautical flogger, probably antique, with multiple strands of leather, each with a pebbled knot at the end. The Detective Inspector made a grutal noise in his throat when Sherlock turned to see him- his eyes blown and his cheeks stained with thick tracks of tears. He'd seem him bad- hell he'd seen him selling himself on the streets for drugs, seen him screaming for something- anything in rehab, Lestrade had always stuck with him, even through the worst. But this- this was hard for him to look at. 

"L-lestrade?" Sherlock whispered, his voice small like a child afraid of the dark. Greg dropped to his knees and grasped Sherlock by his wrists, pulling the whip from his fist. 

"Yeah, sunshine, it's me," He said gently, calmly, because he knew that freaking out wouldn't help.

"I'm naked," Sherlock said, looking down at himself absently.

"That you are, bud, I brought you your clothes," Greg said kindly, pressing his hand to Sherlock's forehead and brushing through his curls. Sherlock's eyes found his, his lips drawn in between his teeth and his chin quivering. "You wanna explain what you think you're doing?" Greg said a bit firmer and Sherlock nodded, rubbing his snotty nose with the back of his arm.

"Hurt John," He whispered, "I hurt John and now- now he _hates_ me, and he- he didn't, he didn't hate me before, but now-" Sherlock bit his lip harder, eyes averted, "I hurt John, John is good, and brave and strong and he's not like me, and I hurt him, and now he's _gone_ ,"

Greg held his breath, unsure what to say, instead examining Sherlock's shoulders, the whip marks that licked up the top and dipped into his clavicle. 

"You did this to yourself," He said, not a question, and Sherlock nodded, but then shook his head. "Have you taken anything?

"Some of it, some of it is- from- then," Sherlock shook his head violently, holding himself still beneath Greg's hands, "no drugs, please don't tell John, I don't do drugs! John said no drugs so I don't-"

"Sherlock, why would you do this?" Sherlock's eyes widened, his brows furrowed in confusion. _Hadn't he just told him this?_

"John- John is gone, so I must do it myself," Sherlock said, obviously, as if this was a clear conclusion. Greg's stomach sank and he grit his teeth in anger.

"Did he hurt you?"

Sherlock nodded softly, but then shook his head. 

"He- did, but they stopped him, but he wanted to keep going, he _did,_ I know he did, why wouldn't he? After what I did to him, he can do what he likes with me. I deserve it, Lestrade, I deserve it and more," Sherlock whispered erratically, breathing becoming irregular, "I never should have come back, I wasn't supposed to come back,"

" _Sherlock_ ," Greg choked, putting a hand over his face as a wave of anger came over him. "Sherlock that's not true. That's not true at all, son, you do not deserve this," Greg said firmly, pressing a warm kiss to the crown of his shivering curls. 

"But- but- I- he was- he thought that I-" Greg cut him off, pulling him up by his forearm, trying to not be too rough.

"I don't want to hear this, Sherlock, now come on, you should be in hospital,"

"No!" Sherlock shrieked, tumbling backwards out of Lestrade's grip, "No! No hospital!"

"Sherlock," Greg admonished, confused, "Sherlock you're- Sherlock your _back,"_

"I don't want the hospital!" Sherlock shouted, falling backwards and shrieking as his back tore open some more and Greg steeled himself. 

"I didn't ask, Sherlock, either you get downstairs on your own two feet or I'll carry you. We're going," Lestrade said sternly and Sherlock whimpered, wiping at his cheeks and sniffling. The older man searched through the bundle on the floor and pulled out Sherlock's pants and trousers- not daring to bother with a shirt. 

"No," He mumbled, his voice timid and meek. Greg made quick work of his clothing, pulling his pants up over his feet and knees, quickly covering him before tugging his trousers on one leg at a time, doing his best to pull them up all the way without lifting the frail and skinny man. How could he have been this thin? He had looked alright earlier!

Lestrade let out his breath but didn't sigh, unbuttoning his sleeves and pulling them up to his elbows before gently grasping around Sherlock's shoulders, his own skin now sticky with blood, tucking his other arm into the crook of his knees. The boy (as he'd always be to Lestrade) moaned in pain as he lifted him up before stepping backwards out of the room, pushing the door open with his back and carefully (but rather quickly) descending the stairs.

"Dad- Dad I'm sorry," Sherlock blubbered, barely grasping around the DI's neck. Lestrade didn't even blink at the name, only nodding, carefully taking each step as to not rattle Sherlock. 

"You can't do this, Sherlock," Greg said finally, "but let's not discuss it right now, love, we gotta get you fixed up," They were silent as they finally reached Baker Street, the detective miraculously pulling his (shaking) keys from his pocket without moving Sherlock too much. He pulled open the back door and carefully settled his cargo onto the leather seat, pulling the orange shock blanket from beneath the seat and quickly folding a pillow for his head. Sherlock's eyes widened and he tugged on Greg's shirt.

"I'm sorry, please, I'm sorry, please don't go,"

"I'm not leaving, I've got to drive the car, son," Sherlock only shook his head with eyes pressed shut. 

"Can't- please-" Greg only pressed a second kiss to his forehead and clicked shut the door, certain that either Sherlock had lied about the drugs, or he was suffering a major break down. 

The Detective quickly pulled away from Baker Street, driving with maniac speed to Barts. He kept his eyes on the road but quickly pressed the first speed dial on his mobile and held it to his ear. It only rang once.

"What state is he in?" Came the posh, cold voice from the other end, the voice that only Greg knew was shaking with worry.

"He's-" Greg paused and looked into the rearview mirror. Sherlock whimpered, rustling on his back, tucking his head into the corner of the seat and groaning with agony. "He's not great, Mycroft, found 'im beating himself, says he clean, we're on our way to Barts,"

"I'll meet you there, Inspector," The phone clicked and Greg tossed it to the passenger seat, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles. Sherlock was silent, passed out from loss of blood, and Lestrade reached one hand back, just to feel him, to hold him. The skin was cold beneath his hand, but his chest rose and feel with shallow breath.

"We're almost there, 'Lock, you're gonna be fine," Sherlock rolled over in a burst of consciousness, foggy eyes glaring towards the front seat.

"I am fine, I'm fine, please, take me home," Sherlock sobbed and Lestrade only pet him from the front seat, pulling madly into the parking level beneath the hospital. 

"We're here, son, I'm gonna come around for you, alright?"

"Ngmphhh-" Sherlock moaned, trying to push himself up. "M'fine!" He shouted angrily, kicking at Lestrade as he opened the door. "Wanna go home!"

"Sherlock! Listen to me! calm down, I'm trying to help you!"

"No! NO!" Sherlock writhed as Lestrade tugged on his ankles, pulling him into his arms, at first bridal style, but with the way he was struggling he was liable to fall, so he pulled him in like a baby Koala on his hip, hand tucked under his backside, other arm wrapped around his back. It was an awkward tangle of limbs, but he had far more control this way. 

"No!" Sherlock whispered defeated, head flopping down onto Lestrades shoulder. "Don't tell- please-don't tell John,"

Lestrade shouted at a pair of EMTs going across the cold parking garage, getting their attention, and a pair of ghost white faces, and realized they looked rather gruesome. 

"Promise!" Sherlock keened to get his attention and Lestrade turned with wide eyes back to his charge.

"Of course, 'Lock, I won't tell him,"

Sherlock nodded, head lolling back as the stretcher arrived, and Lestrade lay him down with delicate care.

"i'm sorry dad," He choked, "I didn't want this," and Lestrade nodded. 

"I know you didn't," And with that Sherlock dropped down below, into a deep and dark sleep, and Lestrade could barely catch his breath, watching the stretcher go into the hospital, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. 

How was he going to make this okay? Sherlock was mad for John, beyond mad actually. And John wasn't- well, John didn't want to reciprocate. How was Lestrade going to convince him that he was worth more than whatever that idiot doctor said he was. 

"You can't," Mycroft said behind him and Lestrade didn't ask how he knew what he was thinking. 

"I don't want to lose him again, Mycroft,"

The two men were silent as they watched the sliding doors of the A&E, the way they had before, and the way they would again. 


End file.
